Fearless Freedom

Summary

More than anything, feisty eleven-year-old Bernice Givens wants to be a freedom fighter in the civil rights movement that is sweeping the American South. She gets her chance when Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. comes to Birmingham, Alabama, to start a campaign. But after what happens on the day she marches against segregation, Bernice spends her nights fending off bad dreams, her days avoiding the marches and all of her time hiding a shameful secret from her friends and family—that she is a deeply afraid.

During the historic spring and summer of 1963, with help from her family and her new friend Betsy, a blind girl from up North who also faces discrimination, Bernice struggles to understand fear and regain the courage to continue her fight against injustice.

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Fearless Freedom - Corinne Gaile

One

A drive seemed like just the right thing after sitting in church all morning. I relaxed in the backseat and looked out the window.

Daddy stopped the car short, and I shifted to the middle of the seat to look between my parents out the front window. A group of colored people knelt to pray. I could see a line of police with German Shepherds blocking their path.

What are those people doing?

It looks like a protest, Daddy said.

My chest filled with pride at the sight of freedom fighters. Now, I thought, I’m going to see a real protest, not just read about it. When the group finished praying, they stood up ready to march. A red-faced policeman started shouting. "You folks do not have a permit to march. Disperse, or you will be arrested!"

I held my breath. The people stayed put. The police stepped closer.

I knew the protesters wouldn’t put up a fight. Freedom fighters went to jail for their cause. I was all set to watch the arrests, but then some people watching from the park started yelling and carrying on. The police raised their batons, and my heart jumped.

I think we’ve seen enough, Mama said.

I wanted to see more, but Daddy backed up the car and turned around. I twisted to see out the back window, but we drove away fast.

Those people are just stirring up trouble, Mama said. She looked back at me. "I don’t want you anywhere near downtown until this thing is over with, you hear me?"

Yes, ma’am, I said, but ever since I met my hero and heard him speak, I knew that downtown with the marchers was exactly where I wanted to be.

***

I jumped to my feet, clapped like crazy, and made a dash to the front of the room. By the time I got there, a bunch of big tall men blocked my view. I wasn’t about to miss my chance, so I ducked down, squeezed through, and popped up right at the head of the crowd.

Well hello, young lady, he said. His sunny brown eyes fixed on me like I was the only person in the room.

My name is Bernice Givens, and I want to be a freedom fighter.

Pleased to meet you, Bernice, we can always use help from an enthusiastic girl like you.

Then he shook my hand! I smiled wider than I ever smiled before and gazed up at my hero. I could’ve stayed like that all day, but somebody else reached for him.

Bernice, I heard my father call, time to go.

Daddy led me out the church and into our car. My body scooted onto the front seat, but my mind was still back at the church. Used to be nothing exciting ever happened to an eleven-year-old colored girl from Birmingham, Alabama, but I had just shaken hands with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

***

Daddy parked the car in front of our house and turned off the engine. Mama got out and hurried up the steps to the porch, but I stayed behind.

Daddy, what do you think happened after we left?

My father put his arm on the back of the seat and turned to look at me. I’m guessing a bunch of people got arrested, and I’m afraid somebody got hurt, but the marchers were prepared for that. You weren’t scared, were you?

No, sir! I knew that sometimes people got hurt, but nothing could stop the movement. I imagined the protesters stepping into paddy wagons like in the pictures I had seen in Ebony Magazine. Freedom fighters were the bravest people in the world. Just to think there were colored people, right here in Birmingham, who weren’t afraid of the police and weren’t afraid to go to jail. More than ever, I wanted to be a freedom fighter, too.

I helped Mama get dinner started and then went to my room. I wanted to write Lorraine, to tell her what happened. She always wrote about something interesting going on up in Nashville. Her letters to me were as thrilling as a Saturday movie matinee. My letters to her were as dull as Sunday school, but this one would be different, because this time I was the one with exciting news.

My sister, Lorraine, and I wanted to join the movement ever since those Freedom Riders came through two years before. Those brave college students, who rode through the South defying segregation, were our heroes. Then Lorraine started college at Fisk up in Nashville. She met the Freedom Riders and joined the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee. She was in the movement. Now I would have my chance.

April 7, 1963

Dear Lorraine,

How are you? I am better than fine since Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. came to town. Daddy took me to hear him talk about his plans for Birmingham. His speeches are just as exciting as the papers say. I was jumping up and down in my seat. If Mama had been there, she would have told me to sit still and act like a lady, but I couldn’t help it. And guess what I did when his speech ended. I walked right up to him and shook his hand!

We are going to end segregation in the stores downtown. No more colored only water fountains and bathrooms, and we will finally be able to eat at the lunch counter in Loveman’s, just like the white folks. It’s about time!

Yesterday, Reverend Shuttlesworth led a protest downtown and everybody was arrested. Can you believe it? Today I saw a group of marchers downtown. The police came, and I bet they were all arrested.

Bernice, supper, my mother called.

Dang! My letter would have to wait. I skidded into the kitchen to help set the table and almost knocked over a serving dish.

‘Be careful! Slow down! Lower your voice!’ My mother said those words to me so often that I could hear them in my dreams. Could I help if I was naturally excited about things? Daddy called it exuberance. Mama said I was all limbs and sharp edges. I tucked in my elbows, careful not to bump anything else, and started setting the table.

Salty steam from Mama’s chicken and dumplings competed with the collard greens in a delicious smell-off. I licked my lips.

I set the table with plates and silverware and then folded our napkins into triangles to give them some style. I took the biscuits from the oven and transferred them one by one into a biscuit pyramid on Mama’s special platter. Then I poured three glasses of iced water. Palm Sunday supper was always special. There was a sweet potato pie waiting in the pantry.

Mama nodded her approval of the table and stepped over to the stove. Once she filled the serving dishes, Mama took off her apron, smoothed her dress, and called for Daddy.

My father walked in with a smile on his face, patting his trim waist. Something smells mighty good! He lifted the cover off the chicken and flared his nostrils wide, inhaling the aroma. Then he pulled the chair out with a flourish, and Mama sat down like a queen. I slipped into my chair while Daddy claimed his seat at the head of the table.

Bernice? Mama said. We bowed our heads, time to do my duty. Grace today had to be something special, it being Palm Sunday and after what we saw.

"Lord, we thank you for the fine dinner that Mama prepared on this special day. We pray a blessing for our family here and for Lorraine up in Nashville. And we pray for all the valiant freedom fighters who are sitting in jail. I paused over the word valiant, hoping my father would notice. Please keep them safe until they get back home to their families. We pray that the boycott will succeed and that freedom will come to downtown Birmingham this spring."

A-men, Daddy said. His big hands spooned a healthy helping of chicken onto his plate before passing it to me. I took some and then sent it on. Soon my plate was full of chicken and dumplings, collard greens, brown sugar carrots, and rice smothered with gravy. Daddy kept quiet while he tasted a bit of everything and washed it down with some water. Then he said one word, Stupendous!

Mama and I giggled. Ever since I could remember, my father had been coming up with these ten-dollar words. Mama told Lorraine and me that Daddy wanted to be an English teacher when he was a boy, but he never got the chance to go to college.

Daddy cleaned the lawyers’ offices in a building downtown. He said he was the most literary janitor in Birmingham. Daddy loved to read. It was what he did every night after dinner. I filed the word stupendous in my mental dictionary.

Daddy, how long do you think Reverend Shuttlesworth will be in jail? And what about those people today?

I don’t know, Nicey. Daddy gave me my nickname, Nicey. It rhymed with spicy. Daddy said I was like a dash of Tabasco. We’ll just have to wait and see. King’s organization should be able to raise the bail money.

Mama shook her head. It’s a shame when men of the cloth get sent to jail. And if that’s not enough, protests on Palm Sunday!

Things are going to get serious now. Daddy dabbed his mouth with the napkin and looked at me, no turning back. There will be more demonstrations, and more people going to jail. That’s the strategy, Nicey, fill up the jails, let them know jail don’t scare us.

They have to use their manpower to feed and guard us, Daddy continued. When the jails are filled up and we keep on coming, then what will they do?

I don’t like seeing decent people hauled off to jail, my mother said. That Bull Connor is the devil himself.

My eyes swung back and forth, from Mama to Daddy, like I was watching a ping-pong match. It was best to stay quiet at the dinner table once Mama got going. I understood why Mama was worried. White folks in Birmingham were mean. They beat those Freedom Riders senseless. The Ku Klux Klan had bombed so many Negro homes, churches, and cars, that colored folks called our city Bombingham. The Klan was always bombing the houses up on Dynamite Hill where my best friend, Sharon, lived. Those white folks were jealous of colored people living in nice new homes. Mama was right about Bull Connor. He was the head of the police, and any colored person with good sense was afraid of the police. Daddy said a lot of them were members of the Klan. But I agreed with Daddy about the movement. We had to stand up for our rights.

I’m just glad Lorraine is up at Fisk, away from this mess, Mama said.

I wanted to say that Lorraine was in the movement up at Fisk, but I knew enough to keep my mouth shut.

After we cleared the table, I brought out the pie. I could smell the cinnamon. Mama served everyone a slice. No more politics, she said.

The dirty dishes were waiting for me after supper. When I got back to my room, Daddy’s word popped into my